


The Beast and the Soldier

by Wolf_dog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, But it's not very descriptive, Curses, Guns, M/M, Panther Sherlock, Romance, Sherlock gets sick, Short Chapters, There is a death scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_dog/pseuds/Wolf_dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beauty and the Beast AU. Sherlock was an arrogant young prince who got a curse put on him so he was a panther by day and a human by night. John Watson is running from his past (quite literally) and happens upon the prince's castle. What happens next? Will they fall in love and break Sherlock's curse? Or will he stay cursed for the rest of his lonely existence?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Something that I wrote a few years ago, so please excuse any bad gramma/punctuation.

Once upon a time, which wasn’t all that long ago, in the middle of the forest, there was a mansion. This mansion was run by a prince, whose arrogance and selfishness caused the people to plead for a witch to teach him some humility. The witch told them that she would first test this prince’s heart, and, if it were un-pure, he would be cursed to spend his life as a monstrous beast by day until somebody came and loved him. For who he was, and not just the way he looked or how he acted.

Disguising herself as an old woman, the witch waited until a ferocious storm wracked the forest, and then begged at the prince’s door for shelter for just one night. The prince arrogantly refused her, unwilling to share his dwelling with anyone except his servants. The witch told him that he would be rewarded if he let her stay, just until the storm was over. But, the prince refused her a second time. She had warned him, but he did not heed her. Transforming back into her normal state, the witch placed a curse on him, and the prince begged for forgiveness, but she had seen that his heart was un-pure. She told him to wait until someone loved him just for him, and when they confessed their love honestly, only then would the spell be broken.

By day, the prince would turn into a humongous beast, all the townsfolk feared him, and raised their children on stories of the beast. By night, the prince would be turned back into his normal self, but he had seen how horrid he looked, and he was ashamed. He locked himself in his mansion, and all his servants were dispersed, except a few exceedingly loyal ones, who cleaned up the mansion for him.

His brother heard of his state, and tried to console him, but the prince turned him away. He would bear this curse alone. Nobody could ever love a beast.

Well, nobody, except for one, a very special one that would change his life completely, if the beast allowed- and that is where our story begins. In a dark forest, haunted by wolves, with a raging storm going on, where one lonely little man desperately tried to find shelter.


	2. Chapter One

It’s cold, and wet. He’s injured and bleeding heavily. But he has to keep running through this damned forest. He has to outrun them and find shelter if he is to survive. Clutching his bleeding arm, John Watson’s face tightens as a loud howl weaves through the air, making his spine tingle with fear. He would _not_ die like this, dammit! Not today. Clenching his jaw, John increased his pace, eyes squinting against the harsh rain, blown against his face by the raging wind. Another howl to his left and sneaking a glance, he could see a grey wolf’s amber eyes fixed on him, running alongside. They had nearly caught him and they knew it, too. But he would _not_ give up! He had been running since midday, and he knew it would be nearly the evening by now, but he couldn’t tell for sure because of the clouds that shielded the sun from his eye’s searching gaze.

It must be his imagination, but, was that an iron-gate fence ahead? John, hope filling his chest, ran faster. If he could reach the gate before them, he had a chance of survival. It was so close! With a final burst of speed, panting breaths forming before him in mist, John reached his bloodied hand out to the gate. To his relief, it creaked open. Shooting inside, he slammed it shut behind him, fumbling with an old lock for a moment, before hearing the sure and definite click of it closing, he felt an immense feeling of gratitude directed at that old iron gate and lock, flow through his entire body. Panting, he turned and looked ahead of him. There was a huge, haunted-looking mansion ahead. Glancing back at the wolves still snarling at the gate, frustrated at having been so close to warm meat, he decided to take his chance with the mansion.

Walking along the path, he clutched at his arm again, the blood slipping though his fingers, and down his injured arm, towards the ground beneath his feet. Two of the wolves had gotten a hold at him at one point, and he knew he would need stitches. Reaching the large, wooden door after a moment, John was almost delirious. He had been running for almost a quarter of the day, and he had lost a fair amount of blood. Opening the door, he was surprised that it didn’t creak like the gate had. Was someone living here? Poking his soaked blonde head inside, he gave a shiver at the cold, and crept inside. “Is someone here?” he called, his voice hoarse from lack of use and the frantic run for his life. He called again, ‘Is anyone home?’ Clearing his throat, he shut the door gently behind him.

A shadow flickered in the corner of his eye, and a sense of dread crept over him. There was some _thing_ in here. Whether it was a _who_ or a _what_ was an entirely different matter. Turning, he crept further inside, and, still bleeding, looked around. “Hello?” he asked hesitantly. “Please, I need some help, I’ve been injured. Is there _anyone_ here?”

A rush of wind passed him, and he turned, unable to see anything in the dark gloom. _Something_ was definitely watching him. He knew it. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he felt slightly defenceless and exposed to any threat as his body was wracked with a violent cough. He must have caught a cold, being out in that rain. When he recovered from his coughing fit, he started backwards as warm air rushed over his face. Looking up, his eyes went wide at what he saw. It looked like some kind of panther, but more … feral. Dark, slightly curly, soft-looking fur covered its body, and piercing blue-grey eyes studied John intently with a kind of coldness that made him shiver. And yet, it truly was “Gorgeous,” he breathed, the thought flying straight from his mind  and out his mouth.

It took John a moment, and then he realised that its shoulders were the height of his head, and it was bending its head to stare into John’s eyes. It really was gorgeous, in a wild kind of way that John was sure not many people could appreciate. It was _snarling_ at him. He started a bit as he realised this. He knew that this panther…thing was dangerous, and could potentially cause more damage than the wolves outside, yet he had let his guard down immediately around him and had started _admiring_ this creature, what was wrong with him?!

“Who are you, and what do you want?!” A deep, male, baritone voice snarled at him, echoing around the great hall in which they stood.

John took a quick glance around, but there was no one else here except … John’s eyes widened as the realisation clicked. No way! A _talking,_ panther! He shut his mouth with a click, staring at the beast in front of him with awe. Then, he staggered to the ground, hissing in pain, clutching his arm. He was losing far too much blood and soon he wouldn’t have enough to sustain the oxygen supplies within his brain.  “My arm,” he said softly, looking up at the panther-thing. “I was attacked, by the wolves in the forest. I’m going to need stitches, but I can’t do it by myself.” He hated the weak panting that accompanied his voice.

The panther-thing crouched in front of him, tail twitching, and sniffing the air as he bent his head to gently nose John’s injured arm. John gave a low grunt of pain, pulling his arm away slightly. He _had_ said that he was injured, it didn’t need to go poking at it. “You’re not lying,” it said, his voice now a softer, smooth rumble.

“Of course I’m not! Why on Earth would I fake an injury?!” John snapped, defensive and strangely hurt by the thought that the beast thought he would lie.

Rolling his blue-grey eyes, the beast lifted its head to face the door, “It’s nearly night,” it murmured, just loud enough for John to hear if he strained his ears over the pounding in his head.

Then, it looked back down at John, “What’s your name?” it asked, lying down on the floor, tail flicking back and forth, it’s piercing eyes searching John’s face. It seemed that it was showing John that he did not have to be afraid of it.

John stared into the eyes of the panther for a moment, and then answered him. “John. John Watson - and yours?”

The panther blinked, as if unaccustomed to people asking his name. “Sherlock Holmes,” he rumbled, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Nice name,” John commented, setting his bag on the floor with a slight wince. “I’ve got some needles and thread in here,” he said, even though he didn’t know _how_ he supposed a panther was going to stitch him up. He was just grateful that his kit hadn’t been lost in the race for is life through the forest.

Then, the beast lunged at him, although its large, surprisingly soft paws protected the back of his head from the floor, it somehow managed to press the pressure point on the back of his neck, causing him to slip into unconsciousness with a slight, feeble groan.


	3. Chapter Two

When John opened his eyes next with a groan, there was the panther-thing wrapped around his body protectively, and its ear twitched at John’s groan. His hand immediately travelled to his injured arm, surprised to find it neatly stitched up and clean. Frowning slightly in confusion, he looked down at Sherlock. In a rush, he remembered Sherlock knocking him out, and a scowl crept up over his features. Even if he had done it so that he could fix his arm up (how he had done it, John still had to figure out), he could have just _told_ John to lie still. He didn’t have to render him unconscious!

He put his hand on the large, furry, black shoulder, about to wake him up, but he lost that train of thought as soon as his hand came into contact with the soft fur, his hand sinking into it slightly. All of his previous anger vanished, and he rubbed the soft strands between his fingertips. It was so soft and smooth, not all the tangled knots he had imagined. Flicking a glance at Sherlock’s large face, John gently rested his head on his the large, soft, ribcage and closed his eyes, listening to the steady thrumming of the large heart… which to John’s surprise, and utter embarrassment, was beating at a rate which was most definitely _not_ a sleeping rate. Starting upright, face flushing, John opened his eyes to find Sherlock watching him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, leaving his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and unconsciously continuing to run his fingers through the soft strands. Acting as if it was a completely normal thing to be doing.

A deep, rumbly purr ran through Sherlock’s large body, vibrating around John. Lifting his head and showing off his large, sharp teeth in a yawn, Sherlock raised one large paw and scratched behind his ear. Watching him, John couldn’t help but notice how precise and _royal looking_ his movements were.

John was struck with how warm he was, with Sherlock wrapped around him, and felt a sudden surge of affection for the panther for keeping him warm while he slept. Sherlock’s sharp eyes watched him as he set his head back down on his paws. There was a moment of silence, and John remembered his anger, his hand left the soft fur, and he scowled at Sherlock. “You didn’t have to knock me out, you know!” he said angrily.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Didn’t want you to be fidgeting and _complaining_ while I was working on you,” he said in a bored tone, his gaze flicking away from John, and John had a feeling there was something that Sherlock wasn’t telling him.

“I’m a _soldier_!” John snapped, barely keeping himself from saying: ‘ _and an army doctor!_ ’ He wouldn’t have fidgeted. He was accustomed to pain and hardship. Death, illness and fear.

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened with interest at this, and his eyes scanned over John’s figure, humming thoughtfully to himself. “I don’t scare you, then?” he said in a low voice, eyes pinning John’s, demanding nothing but the truth.

John snorted. “Why on Earth would I be frightened of you?” he said, rolling his eyes. “You have given me no reason to. You let me stay here for the night, and you fixed up my wound,” he pointed out.

Sherlock stared into his eyes for a few moments more, and then smiled. John wasn’t quite sure whether to be relieved or unnerved. He had the feeling that he had just passed some sort of test. Uncurling from around John, Sherlock stretched out his body, flicking his tail over his head as he arched his back, and gave a growl of content. After admiring Sherlock’s graceful body for a moment, John stood himself, holding his arm gingerly so as to not agitate the still-fresh wound.

Looking at the window by the door, John saw the storm still raging on outside. “I’m sorry to be such a bother,” John started apologetically, not liking to ask favours of people especially ones he didn’t know, “But would I be able to stay here until the storm passes?” It seemed like the warmth of Sherlock’s body and a good rest had driven away his cough.

Sherlock’s fur rippled slightly up his spine, and he tail flicked as he turned and looked into John’s deep blue eyes seriously for several long moments. John blinked, but kept his gaze clear. He had nothing to hide. Seemingly satisfied with what he found in John’s gaze, Sherlock gave a nod, his large head bowing slightly to John. “In any case, those wolves are used to people sheltering here for one night, and then being thrown out again. They will stay for at least a week, hoping for warm meat,” Sherlock said, sniffing disdainfully.

John flicked a nervous glance at the door. That lock on the iron-gate hadn’t seemed all that strong. “Th-they can’t break in, though, can they?” John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock snorted, eyes dark for a moment before he turned his back and flicked his tail in a signal for John to follow him as he said in a low voice and turning his head to flash him a toothy, sinister smile, “They wouldn’t dare.”

Shivering at Sherlock’s deadly tone, John followed him obediently as Sherlock led him up a wide, royal looking staircase. “Mrs Hudson!” The loud snarl, meant more to capture attention than to induce fear, startled John, and he winced as his foot slipped and his arm instinctively shot out to clutch at the railing, but it was his injured arm that shot out, pain thrumming through his arm, and he drew in a breath through clenched teeth. Sherlock turned and said, “Do _try_ not to injure yourself further, John. I don’t fancy having to restitch that up.”

John gave a nod and a small smile, and Sherlock turned back around, even though his tail was now flicking at the tip. Cradling his arm across his chest, John continued to carefully make his way up the stairs. Sherlock was waiting for him at the top, washing himself with his paw. An old, thin, grey-haired lady was waiting beside him, her kind green eyes watched him, a smile on her face.

“John will be needing a room, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, placing his paw down on the ground and waiting until John was beside him to start speaking.

Mrs Hudson, obviously gleeful, clapped her hands together, a large smile on her face. “Oh, of course, Master Sherlock! I’ll get right onto it!” She exclaimed, giving a slight bow before hurrying off.

John raised an eyebrow. ‘Master Sherlock’? So he had been right. He _was_ royal, “You, uh, you a prince or something?” John asked, somewhat awkwardly, shifting slightly, suddenly realising how shabby and unclean he looked.

Sherlock gave a low growl of discontent. “Does it matter if I am?” he snarled in a low tone, intense blue eyes flashing.

“Of course not, but it would explain a few things,” John said easily. He didn’t care if he was rich, or a prince. He had sheltered John and helped him when he had most needed it, John would always remember that and be grateful for it.

Sherlock blinked in slight shock, before a wall seemed to come down and block off his emotions. “Follow me,” he ordered, turning away from John and leading the way down a lavish hallway, his tail sweeping in large arches, and John remembered the feel of Sherlock’s soft fur keeping him warm that morning. “I’ll show you to where you’ll be sleeping.”

John felt a slight twinge of disappointment that he wouldn’t be sleeping next to the warm panther, but brushed it off hastily. Best to not get too emotionally attached. He would, of course, have to go back at some stage. He’d only just met Sherlock, why would he already be so happy to become attached to him?! John simply brushed it off as still needing more sleep.


	4. Chapter Three

“Breakfast will be held in half an hour, lunch is at twelve precisely, and dinner at 7:30,” Sherlock told him, looking around John’s room with a sniff.

John was in slight shock at the grandeur of the room. It was large, had a thick, soft carpet, a desk in the corner, a large, oak wardrobe, a king-sized bed - it was fit for a king! Blinking, John turned to Sherlock. “Th-thank you for letting me stay here,” he said softly, going over and stroking the soft sheets with his hand, feeling them, absently noting that they were no way near as soft as Sherlock’s fur.

He had grown up in a small town, with poor parents, and had had to plead for money or food most days. His father and mother worked hard to feed both of their children, but it wasn’t enough. He had been a humble child, never having experienced grand things, never knew there was more to the world. He had never even _been_ to a place like this.

A soft nose gently nudged his side. “You’re welcome,” Sherlock’s soft voice rumbled, before the panther turned and left the room with soft paws, hardly making a sound. If John wasn’t mistaken…that was a sign that perhaps Sherlock liked John just as much as John liked Sherlock?

John stared after him for a moment, and then continued to look around his room again, brushing the absurd thought off. After a while, he was satisfied that he had thoroughly investigated every part of it (even the attached bathroom!) and decided to venture out.

Checking his waterlogged, chunky cell phone, John noticed he only had five minutes left until breakfast, so he decided to start trying to make his way there. Jogging down the large stairs, John was stuck for a moment as to which way to go, but then decided on left. If he got lost, he could always make his way back here.

With a sigh of relief, John turned a corner and found the front door with a smile. Except, someone was just walking in, his coat swishing from the wind and his umbrella shadowing his face as he turned and shut the door behind him. Curious, John stayed and watched him.

As the man turned and folded his umbrella, he spotted John and stiffened. “Who are you?!” he demanded, authority leaking in through his voice, and his posture straightening.

John briefly wondered who this man was. “John,” he said, not giving away any more information.

Eyes narrowing, the man stalked across the room and grabbed his injured arm without realising, and squeezed roughly. “Who are you and what are you going here?” he asked in a low voice, more like a snarl than anything.

John frowned, but his posture straightened, his soldier nature pushing forward and he glared into this strange man’s grey-blue eyes and tightened his mouth into a thin line and he said nothing, refusing to show his pain.

The man’s grip tightened, but John still refused to say anything. This man was trying to intimidate him (John didn’t think that he even knew he was hurting John quite a bit), nothing more, and John would not let him. He refused to.

A loud, deadly snarl broke their stare off, and the man’s hand tightened on John’s arm for a moment. Not looking away from the man, John saw Sherlock stalking towards them, hackles raised and teeth bared. It was the most dangerous-looking John had seen Sherlock so far. “Let go of him” Sherlock snarled, pushing his way between them, his body blocking John from the other man.

Thankful, John’s other arm gently soothed his sore, and he let out a sigh of relief.

“I worked rather hard on his arm, I don’t necessarily want you to reopen it and have all my hard work ruined,” Sherlock growled, his body posture still tense, his tail flicking angrily.

“I am sorry, brother. I didn’t realise,” the man apologised, and John was shocked. _Brother_?

Sherlock grumbled, discontent, and turned away from his brother, his piercing eyes searching John’s for a moment before nudging him away from the man. John obediently turned and allowed Sherlock to nudge him in the right direction.

“Let’s not be too hasty, brother,” the man called after them, and Sherlock froze, a low growl forming in his throat.

He whipped around, and John turned as he felt the air rush past him. Sherlock bounded towards his the man, who didn’t flinch, he didn’t even blink, as Sherlock came to a stop, snarling teeth centimetres from his face. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

John was slightly impressed. It wasn’t easy to not be intimidated by Sherlock, especially when he was acting like this.

“Can’t a brother just come visit from time to time?” Mycroft said with a smile, but John saw the way his eyes flickered to John.

With a small smirk, John stayed put. He didn’t like this guy, Mycroft, and would relish the opportunity to make him feel uncomfortable.

“Not if it’s you,” Sherlock retorted without pause, and Mycroft’s smile dropped into a scowl.

As the silence stretched out, Sherlock snorted and turned away again. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, “John and I are going to have breakfast. Have a cup of tea before you go.”

Then he began to nudge John gently along again, tail swishing Mycroft away dismissively. John could practically feel the resentment rolling off Sherlock’s brother, and gave a soft chuckle as they rounded a corner, and Sherlock came to walk next to him. “Thanks,” John said softly with a smile.

                        Sherlock glanced at him, his ear flicking with surprise. They walked in comfortable silence the rest of the way to the kitchen, John trying to memorise it so he wouldn’t get lost next time and Sherlock wouldn’t have to go get him.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast was surprisingly nice. Not that John had really expected much else, but still. However, John didn’t eat much. He wasn’t used to such lavish food. He was concerned that, in large quantities, it might upset his digestive system. _That_ would be embarrassing. So, he politely excused himself before anyone could notice, and made his way back to his room, pondering. Why was he being treated so nicely? Sherlock had seemed to be watching him at all times, even if it looked like he didn’t, but John could _feel_ it. Not that it was a bad thing, but … something was definitely off.

Back in his room, John took a peek out the window, towards the gate. The wolves were still lying there, just in the border of the trees. Giving a shudder, John turned his attention to the garden. It was gorgeous, even with the rain and wind pelting it. Putting a hand onto the cold window, John smiled.

His smile slipped however, as thoughts and images as to why he was in that forest chased around his head. Hand clenching into a fist on the window, John closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. That was all behind him now. He was here, not back there. Perhaps, if Sherlock didn’t get sick of him, he could hide here for a while. He didn’t want to go back to reality.

Opening his eyes, he jerked around as he saw a pair of piercing eyes in the reflection of the window. His heart thudding, he gave a smile of relief as he saw that it was only Sherlock. Sherlock inclined his head to John and entered the room, crossing it quickly with his long legs and sat next to John so that he wouldn’t have to bend to look at him. Leaning back against the window frame, they stayed in comfortable silence, John’s thoughts drifting once more. He found himself leaning slightly against Sherlock’s warm, furry black body, and his hand in Sherlock’s fur, gently stroking. Sherlock didn’t say anything against it, in fact, to John it felt like he was leaning _into_ John’s hand, not away from him, so he took that as a good sign, smiling in content.


	5. Chapter Four

It was John’s first night in the mansion. He had been lying in bed for hours, unable to sleep. He heard the clock chime twelve. And then … a violin. Sitting up, frowning, John rubbed at his eyes. Had he heard correctly? Yes. Sweet, soft music drifted under his door and into his ears. It was the most amazing sound John had ever heard. Determined to find out who was playing such amazing music, the notes lilting in an indescribably happy way, John crept over to his door, and opened it softly, grateful that it didn’t squeak.

Going over to the railing opposite his door, he peered down into the darkness. Over there, a dimly lit candle. A figure was facing the window, violin perched on his shoulder. He was tall, and wearing a black suit, and John could see the man’s reflection. He had pale skin, and his eyes were closed. There was something familiar, that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, about the way that he moved as he swayed with the music, the curls of his black hair. Shrugging, John rested his head on his hands and watched the figure play, a content smile on his lips.

The music came to a sweet end after an interminable period of John’s unnoticed listening, and he was slightly disappointed. He wanted to hear more music. He wanted to know who this person was, but he didn’t dare call out. So, he kept to the shadows. To his delight, there was only a short pause, before the man began to play another piece. This one was sadder than the last. It sounded to John like the violin was mourning. The deep, soft, echoing notes reflected an eternal sadness, and it made John feel slightly upset, too, as he listened to it. Was this man sad? What could he possibly have to be sad about? John was filled with the irrational urge to run down the stairs and cheer him up.

                        Shaking the thought away, he stifled a yawn and took one last look at the mysterious man before creeping back into his bedroom, leaving the door open so he could hear the music better. Snuggling under the covers of the soft bed, John let out a soft yawn, closed his eyes, and fell into a peaceful sleep for the first time in many, many years, listening to the violin.

 

* * *

 

When John woke in the morning, he was fully rested. It was a strange feeling, for John, to be fully rested. He was used to nights broken by nightmares, or long work days. But, he enjoyed the sensation, stretching out in his bed and yawning, a peaceful smile on his face. Getting up, he grabbed some clean clothes (he had no idea how they’d gotten there, or when, or even how they were the right size) from the wardrobe, and padded into the bathroom, carefully shutting and locking the door behind him.

As he showered, John thought about the grandness of the house. It was the most fantastic house John had ever seen. Why on Earth Sherlock was letting somebody like _him_ inside, he had no idea. A poor boy like him shouldn’t even be allowed near it! With a sigh, John turned off the water and stepped out of the shower stall. There was a fluffy towel waiting on the stand, and John just stared at it for a moment. Was _everything_ in this place grand? Shaking his head, John grabbed the towel and carefully dried himself off, being mindful of his injured arm. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he lifted his injured arm and inspected the stitches. They were extremely neat and precise. Whoever had stitched him up had done an extremely good job.

It certainly couldn’t have been Sherlock. Not with those huge paws of his. How could a gigantic beast become a prince own a castle, anyway? And why wasn’t anyone in this castle scared of him? And who was that man last night with the violin? John’s head was whirling with questions that he wasn’t sure that he could get the answers to. He really wanted to meet that guy from last night, whoever he had been, he had been both a good violinist and _very_ good looking (from what he saw anyway).

Blinking himself out of his thoughts, John decided to try and find out who he was next time he saw him. Rubbing his hair dry, John put on his clothes and brushed his hair before wandering back into his bedroom. With a start, he spotted Mycroft waiting in the middle of the room, swinging his umbrella looking around idly. When he saw John, he gave a smile.

“How very nice of you to join me, Dr Watson,” he said, his sharp eyes staring into John’s.

John gave a slight frown, looking around. How did he know that John was a doctor? It could have just been a wild guess, but John sincerely doubted it. “What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, staying where he was, in just in front of the doorway. He was pretty sure that Sherlock wasn’t going to be able to interrupt this time, so he would just have to soldier it out.

“I could be asking you the same question,” he said, taking a step forward and lifting one eyebrow.

John didn’t move. “I could be wrong, but … I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Mycroft’s face darkened. “It really could, you know,” he said in a low tone, obviously trying to intimidate John.

It wasn’t working. John was a soldier, he had seen horrors that no man would ever want to see. One man wasn’t going to frighten him. John snorted softly, licking his lips. “What do you want from me?” he asked in a strong voice, his posture stiff and straight.

Mycroft took another step forward. “I want to know why you’re here, and why my brother seems so fond of you.”

John’s ears caught the sound of muffled footsteps outside his door. Someone was eavesdropping. “I’m here because I was injured. Sherlock fixed me up, and has allowed me to stay until the storm is over. As to why he ‘so fond of me’, I do not know and even if I did that is _also_ none of your business,” John said, glaring at Mycroft. Even if this was Sherlock’s brother, he was _not_ going to be taking any crap from him.

A small smile twitched on Mycroft’s lips. After a pause of Mycroft obviously re-assessing him, he then said, “And what if I were to offer to pay you money? To stay here and keep my brother happy? You’re obviously not a wealthy man, Dr Watson, I’m sure you could use the money.”

John was horrified. Be fake to the man who had been so kind to him? He heard the soft intake of breath outside the door. “No,” he said firmly, without hesitation. “Absolutely not.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother,” John spat. He was not going to be bribed into this! Even after knowing Sherlock for only one day, he felt a kind of deep connection to him, a sense of loyalty, that he had never felt before, and he had no intention of breaking it.

“I wouldn’t have picked you to become so loyal, so fast,” Mycroft mused. “How is it that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock, of all people?”

John glared at him. Then, he turned his back and strode towards the door. “We’re done here,” he said over his shoulder, and opened the door, striding out, fuming.

The nerve of that man! The absolute _audacity_!

On the walk to the dining room, for breakfast, he calmed down somewhat, but was still horrified and angry. He was sure he didn’t show it on the outside (he had picked that up from the war), but he tried to calm himself down. Although, next time he met with Mycroft, the man had better be careful what he said.

Pausing before the large doors, John closed his eyes for a moment and took deep breaths. He would not let Sherlock’s annoying brother get the best of him. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and walked in. Mrs Hudson was talking softly into Sherlock’s furry, black ear, a large, excited grin on her face. Sherlock himself seemed pretty pleased, his lips curling upwards at the corners, and his tail twitching slightly as he listened.

They both looked up at John walked in, and he gently shut the doors behind him, making sure that they didn’t slam, and Mrs Hudson rushed over, gave him a huge hug, and lead him to his seat. Chuckling softly, he returned her hug and said his thanks, a genuine smile on his face. He couldn’t help it. Her happiness was contagious. Looking over at Sherlock, he found the panther watching him with soft eyes, and John barely caught his deep, content purr.

A warm feeling welled up inside him at Sherlock’s obvious happiness, he was shocked when he figured out what it was. He hadn’t felt this way in a long, long time. He had only known Sherlock for one day. But, it felt like he’d known him for a lifetime already. Perhaps, for once, he could let himself go. He was in a castle, in the middle of nowhere. A storm was raging outside, there were wolves at the gate waiting for him, and he was eating breakfast with a panther. What could go wrong if he indulged himself this one little feeling?


	6. Chapter Five

It was odd. Every night, exactly as the clock finished chiming twelve, the man would appear. It was like he had been waiting for it. As if he didn’t want anyone else to see him. It was the third night in a row that John had snuck out as the clock chimed twelve, but the feeling of happiness and warmth in his belly was still there. Crouching down behind the banister, John smiled as the man walked out from a side room, and into John’s view.

John would have to explore to see what was in that room one day. For now, he just admired the man. His movements and the way he held himself was very familiar, and he had a suspicious feeling of who he was, but he wanted to be absolutely positive before he confronted him. What he didn’t understand was how it had happened. As he watched, the man didn’t immediately lift his violin to his shoulder and start to play. In fact, he seemed… down. Depressed. And John wanted to make him feel better. The man took a seat in the armchair and buried his head in his hands. After a moment, his shoulder began to shake, almost unnoticeably.

With a start, John realised he was _crying_. A pang shot straight to his heart, and, before he could think through what he was about to do, he was on his feet and going down the stairs. He was determined and didn’t give himself a chance to over think. He wanted to comfort this man. Reaching his side, John put a hand on his thin, shaking shoulders. The man looked up at John with blue, piercing eyes, watery from crying. John blinked, shock and a smug victorious feeling racing through his system. He would recognise those eyes anywhere.

With a snarl, the man pushed John away. “What are you doing here?” he yelled, standing and wiping his eyes with his black coat sleeve.

John stumbled backwards, not expecting it. He frowned slightly. “I was just-,” he tried to explain.

“Get out! Leave me!” He roared, swiping out blindly at John.

Hurt coursed through his system. He was being rejected. He loved Sherlock. And yet, here he was, being rejected by the very same man as he tried to comfort him. Scowling to hide his emotions, John turned and ran. He knew the way to the front door. He wasn’t going to be here if he wasn’t wanted. Besides, the storm was dying down, and the wolves had gone (he’d checked this morning). He carried his handgun with him at all times, just in case, and that was all he really needed.

Barging his way out of the mansion, John squinted against the darkness. There was no light from the moon – the clouds were to thank for that – and he could barely see in front of him with the light rain being pushed into his face by the rain.

John ran and ran and ran, until he was exhausted, and far away from the mansion, the sun beginning to make its way over the horizon. Slumping down at the base of a tree, John brought his knees up to his chest, John closed his eyes and breathed deeply, listening to the sounds of the forest.

Mere minutes later, he caught the sound of savage, hungry, excited growling, and a yell of pain. The wolves. They had found something. Bolting upright, John drew his gun from his pocket.

Another yell of pain, and John frowned. He knew that voice! Heart beginning to pound faster in fear (not his own, but for the one he loved and had left behind), John scowled and began to run back the way he came, pushing his body to the limit, praying he could reach him in time.

After a gruelling minute of flat out sprinting, John caught sight of wolves circling something in the midst of them, and stopped. His heart dropped as he recognised the blood-splattered figure of Sherlock. His dark, curly hair was plastered to his forehead, and he clutched his forearm, blood seeping between his fingers. John recognised the blind, desperate swings of a man who knew he could not escape his fate, but was trying anyway. Shaking his head to clear it of thoughts, John took aim and shot at one of the wolves. It fell to the ground, its companions turning to look at John. Shooting his way to Sherlock’s side, he took his stance at Sherlock’s back, aiming at wolf after wolf, and shooting them down.

“You,” he muttered angrily at Sherlock, turning and aiming around the man’s body and shooting another wolf.

“Are.” Bang!

“An.” Bang, bang!

“Idiot!” Bang!

Growling, the remaining wolves began to retreat. John felt Sherlock lean his weight on John, but kept his eyes on the wolves. As soon as they disappeared, John whipped around and caught Sherlock as he stumbled into him. Tutting softly, John looked around, and saw with relief that they weren’t far from the mansion. “Let’s get you home,” he muttered, supporting Sherlock’s weight, and practically dragging the man back to his mansion.

                       

* * *

 

Gently placing Sherlock in his armchair, John turned to go get his bag so he could fix him up, when Sherlock’s hand snaked out and grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Please don’t leave me, John,” he murmured, looking up at John with sad, determined sharp blue eyes.

“I’m just getting my kit, Sherlock,” John said soothingly, prying Sherlock’s fingers gently from his arm.

Sherlock reluctantly released him, and dropped his gaze for a moment. Turning John walked quickly away, intent on getting back to Sherlock as soon as possible.

John returned and knelt down beside Sherlock, who turned a gaze full of relief on John. Quickly disinfecting the wound, muttering a “sorry” as Sherlock hissed in pain. After a quick inspection, John deemed it didn’t need stitches (luckily) and began to bandage it up.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said softly, his gaze burning into the top of John’s blonde head.

After a moment of silence, John said heavily, not looking up, and continuing to bandage up Sherlock’s arm, “You shouldn’t have gone after me.”

Sherlock’s body stiffened. “I don’t want you to go,” he admitted softly.

“Then why did you tell me to?!” John snapped, finally looking up at Sherlock, face tight with confusion and anger.

Sherlock flinched, but kept John’s gaze. He leant forward and gently placed his free, long hand against John’s cheek. “I was afraid. I thought you would leave anyway.” Sherlock’s face was open, for once, and John could see every emotion he was feeling.

Sighing softly, John leant ever-so-slightly into Sherlock’s hand on his cheek. “I would never.”

“Why? And why were you out here in the first place anyway?” Sherlock asked, confusion evident in his tone.

John blushed lightly, clearing his throat and pulling away from Sherlock’s hand slightly. Sherlock made a small noise, and John smiled, pressing against Sherlock’s hand once more. “I-I’ve been watching you. At night,” he admitted softly. “I love the sound of your violin.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, and a large grin spread across his face. Then, he glanced out the window, and frowned slightly. Sliding his hand round to cup the side of John’s face, he tugged John forward at the same time he leant down, and pressed his lips to John’s.

John made a startled sound, and was frozen for a moment, eyes wide and looking at Sherlock’s closed ones. After a moment, Sherlock began to draw away, obvious disappointment in his movements, and John’s brain finally began to work again. Lifting his hands and threading them through Sherlock’s soft curls, John pressed his lips more firmly against Sherlock’s, his eyes closing as his lips began to move with Sherlock’s.

With a soft sigh, Sherlock’s lips parted, and John wasted no time in slipping his tongue in. Sherlock hummed softly, and then tore his lips away with a groan. The sun hit Sherlock’s face as John opened his eyes in confusion. Eyes squeezed shut, Sherlock breathed heavily as he drew his hands up to cover his face. A blinding light caused John to close his eyes and look away for a moment, and when he blinked his eyes open and looked back, Sherlock’s panther body was staring back at him. He seemed uncertain, and John reached forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s large, furry neck.

A purr rumbled through Sherlock’s body, and he licked John’s cheek, causing him to laugh and shy away. A yawn escaped him, and John rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I need some sleep,” he said, standing up.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled, a trace of sadness in his tone.

John’s smile brightened. Brilliant. He had missed (even if he had only experienced it once) Sherlock’s warm, furry body wrapped around him while he slept. “Well, come on then,” he said with a wink, and began to walk back to his room.

For a moment, John was uncertain as there was nothing, then, there was a rush of wind and Sherlock was by his side, leaning his head down to nuzzle John’s back, pushing him forward. Smiling, John made his way to his room, and lay down on the bed, watching as Sherlock leapt gracefully up and wrapped himself around John. Sighing happily, John leant against Sherlock, his deep purr the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.


	7. Chapter Six

John woke to the sound of soft tutting. Opening his eyes blearily, he sat up, rubbing his eyes and leaning against Sherlock’s furry body. His eyes immediately spotted the figure of Mycroft in the corner, and John scowled. “Get the _hell_ out of my room!” John demanded, pointing to the door.

Sherlock began to stir, and John looked down and placed a hand on his head, almost instinctively, and began to stroke the soft, curly fur. Purring softly, Sherlock wrapped himself tighter around John, settling back down again. Leaving his hand on Sherlock’s head, petting the dark fur, John glared back up at Mycroft. Sherlock’s brother was frowning slightly. “He…He’s _purring_ ,” Mycroft said, shock tracing his normally neutral tone.

“Yes, he does that,” John snapped, stroking down Sherlock’s neck, enjoying the feel of the soft fur under his fingertips.

Mycroft frowned deeper. “He never does that around me,” he muttered to himself.

“I can’t imagine why,” John said sarcastically, and then said, “Now get out of my room!”

Sherlock’s soft purr turned into a low growl, his body stiffening, and his eyes snapped open, locking onto his brother’s form.

“Good morning to you too, little brother,” Mycroft said dryly.

“Get out,” Sherlock snarled, and John frowned slightly. Family was important.

John’s family had been broken by alcohol and drugs, and he only wished he could have gotten to know them before the booze. He valued family as the most important thing a person should value. That’s why he’d gone to Afghanistan, he supposed. To save the families that were being torn apart by the war.

Sherlock gently nudged his elbow with his head, and John realised he’d spaced out for a while. Sherlock’s blue, concerned eyes drew him in, and John smiled reassuringly, going back to petting Sherlock’s soft fur. Hearing only silence, John looked around to find Mycroft gone.

Thank God. He really got on John’s nerves. It was like he could tell what would push John just that bit too far, and enjoyed it. It was safe to say that John really detested Sherlock’s older brother. Very much.

Stretching his arms over his head, John gave a startled laugh as Sherlock gently nuzzled his stomach, and immediately brought his hands down, wrapping them around Sherlock’s large, back, furry head and bent his head to press a kiss to his large forehead. Sherlock’s purr was so loud, that it vibrated through his whole body, and into John’s, making him laugh. Looking at the clock, John made a small sound. “We’ve missed breakfast!” he exclaimed.

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, John,” he said, very obviously reluctant, as he uncurled from John and stretched his large forepaws in front of him, arching his back in a stretch, his muscles quivering slightly, rippling under his fur. “Breakfast is served when I get there, and no earlier,” he told John, leaping nimbly off the bed and turning and looking expectantly back at John.

John suddenly felt cold from the lack of warm fur around him. He quickly shook off the feeling and clambered ungracefully off of the bed, brushing off the feeling of not being able to compare in the least to Sherlock’s amazing gracefulness. Sherlock pressed against his legs for a few moments, purring softly in contented happiness, his tail briefly curling around John’s waist, keeping him close, and John put his hands on Sherlock’s large, furry, black side, gently stroking the soft fur. He would never get over how amazingly soft Sherlock’s fur was. It was the best thing in the world, to John.

Sherlock pulled away slightly, his tail flicking away from John’s waist, and began to lead the way to the kitchen, for breakfast. John stood still for a moment, watching Sherlock, when a sudden pang shot through him. How long would it be, he wondered, until _they_ came for him. They always caught up with him. His breath caught in his chest for a few moments, and he forgot how to breathe. No. He didn’t want to leave Sherlock again.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice, laced with evident concern, brought John out of his trance, and he took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly.

He realised he was standing stiffly in the same position, and Sherlock was at the door, turning his head and shoulders to look back at him, his piercing eyes silently questioning him. Forcing a smile on his face, John tried desperately to push away the troubling thoughts and walked over to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t move for a moment, obviously waiting for John to explain, but, when John didn’t, he gave a small huff and stalked out of the doorway, his large paws making no sound on the floor, his tail flicking and curling around John’s waist for a moment, so he knew Sherlock wasn’t really annoyed as he seemed.

John was extremely glad that Sherlock wasn’t pushing it. He didn’t want his time with Sherlock to be tainted with a bitterness of knowing that John would be leaving. He had to. It always happened. He found a place to hide, settled in, and then was forced to go. Either because the person sheltering him found out what he was running from, or because _they_ caught up with him.

Walking out of the room with Sherlock and down the grand set of stairs, John tried hard to push the thoughts from his head. He wanted to enjoy the remainder of the time he had left with Sherlock. He stuck close by Sherlock’s furry body on the way to the dining area, and was determinedly cheerful through breakfast.

He knew Sherlock noticed, but, thankfully, he didn’t say anything. After breakfast, John was stunned to find that when he peeked out the window, the storm had stopped. “The storm’s gone!” he exclaimed, genuinely happy this time.

Sherlock’s fur rippled up his back. “What? Let me see,” he demanded, gently nudging John aside before staring out the window, ears flicking in shock.

John was slightly confused. “What’s so surprising? It was just a storm,” John asked, watching Sherlock intently.

“Yes,” he murmured, voice hardly audible, turning to face John, bending his head to stare intently into John’s blue eyes. “But that storm has been going on for five years.”

Blinking in stunned shock, John frowned slightly. “That … that’s not possible,” he stated, voice blank.

Sherlock didn’t respond for a few moments, still searching John’s eyes (for what, John didn’t know). “That storm was going the night I became this,” he told John, flicking his tail to indicate his huge panther body.

“You were cursed?” John guessed softly.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered away from John’s as he nodded. John’s heart melted slightly, and he murmured softly, and then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, burying his face in the soft fur. Sherlock gave a soft, rumbly purr from deep in his chest, and John had the urge to just stay here, forever, with Sherlock. But he couldn’t, and that just made it hurt all the more.


	8. Chapter Seven

For the first time in five years, at the Holmes mansion, it was sunny and delightfully warm. Sighing happily, John leant back against Sherlock’s warm body behind him and was extremely glad he’d managed to convince Sherlock to go out into the garden with him. From the first day, well second considering Sherlock had knocked him out on his first day, John had wanted to explore the garden. It was so much larger and better than he had expected. After a thorough investigation that took an hour (and got them both soaking as John decided to stomp in a puddle of water to get Sherlock wet as well), John was satisfied that he had explored _every_ aspect of the garden. It was filled with roses and all different kinds of flowers, with hedges shaped as animals and amazing trees. Now, curling up in the sun with Sherlock, he let his eyes drift shut as satisfied content flowed through him.

Sherlock shifted slightly, and then wrapped his thick, fluffy black tail around John’s middle and purred happily. Looking down, John stifled his laughter as he saw the (his) panther sleeping. He guessed that not even Sherlock could resist a nap in the sun. Settling more comfortably, guessing that they would be here for a while, he gently stroked Sherlock’s fur. He let his thoughts wander, and found them drifting towards _them_. His hand tightened in Sherlock’s fur, before he forced himself to keep gently stroking. The softness of Sherlock’s fur soothed him slightly. Perhaps, he could get rid of them once and for all. He didn’t know much about the government, but he was sure they could help him. But, he couldn’t leave Sherlock. Especially not now.

Thinking hard, he gave a slight smirk. Mycroft. While he didn’t like the older Holmes’ brother, he had asked Sherlock about his occupation, and Sherlock had just snorted, telling him that he was the British government. Perfect. Now, if only he could find the prat…

                        He would have to wait until Mycroft came to him, he decided. He didn’t know where Mycroft lived, or even how he got here and then seemed to disappear, but he was sure that Mycroft wouldn’t leave him alone until he figured out _exactly_ who John Watson is. And that would play in John’s favour very nicely.

 

At dinner, John was much more cheerful and in an extremely good mood. Sherlock and John sat side by side as they ate their meal. Sherlock seemed much more relaxed after his nap in the sun. Bellies full and happy, they retreated up to John’s room to watch the sun set. It really was beautiful, but John was more excited about his first (proper) night with human Sherlock. As the final ray of sunlight disappeared over the horizon, Sherlock gave a low groan, and John worried that his transformation hurt him, and, just like this morning, a bright flash of light seemed to emerge _from_ Sherlock himself, and enveloped him. John had to close his eyes so that he wouldn’t go blind from the sheer intensity of the light, and when it faded, there was a soft hand stroking his cheek, and then gently taking hold of his chin. He didn’t have time to open his eyes before there were soft lips on his own. The kiss was soft, short and sweet, but almost as breath-taking as the man himself.

When John pulled back to finally look at human Sherlock, Sherlock was smiling, his whole body posture soft. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s waist, and pulled him close, practically radiating content. He rested his chin on John’s shoulder, and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist in return.

After a few moments, John pulled back slightly, and Sherlock gave a soft grumble, making John smile. “Tell me more about your curse,” John said softly, lifting a hand from Sherlock’s waist to run it through the soft curls on top of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment, blue eyes narrowed slightly as he studied John. “I will, if you tell me about who you’re running from,” he answered eventually, watching John intently.

John stiffened in shock, freezing completely. “I, what? No – I’m not,” John stuttered before shaking his head and clearing his throat to try and get his thoughts straight. “How did you know?” he asked finally in confusion.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, even though he was smiling. “I didn’t know, I observed. Not that hard. You carry around a simple backpack, but it’s equipped with everything you need – even a first aid kit – and, yes, I did go through your bag. You carry your gun with you at all times, and you’re always on alert. Mycroft didn’t frighten you, instead you seemed defiant, like you had seen worse things. You have a scar on your shoulder,” his index finger gently rested on top of the scar on his left shoulder through the clothes. “Obviously a bullet wound of some sort, so, you’ve seen action, then. And, most obviously, you were in the forest. Any _sensible_ man would not travel in these woods, so you’re obviously trying not to be tracked down. And then, when you first came here, you trusted _me_ , of all people, you trusted me. That, in itself, tells its own story. So, you’re running from someone, or perhaps, a group of people. The only thing I _can’t_ figure it out, is who,” Sherlock finished his speech, frowning slightly, blue-grey eyes unfocussed as he obviously got lost in his head.

John gaped with shock, and blinked rapidly, trying to wrap his mind around what Sherlock had just told him. “That’s brilliant,” John breathed, eyes locked on Sherlock’s face, almost not realising he had said it instead of just thinking it. It was, though, completely and utterly brilliant.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back into focus on John, and he gave a small smile, looking surprised. His eyes flicked away for a moment, and he looked uncertain, before he looked back at John. “Really?” he asked, sounding just as uncertain and vulnerable as he looked.

“Of course!” John exclaimed, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands and giving the brilliant man a kiss.

Sherlock seemed to relax, and seemed reluctant as John pulled away, and John couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. When Sherlock blinked out of his gaze, he looked expectantly at John.

Sighing, John absently stroked Sherlock’s smooth cheeks with his thumbs as he turned his head away and bit his lip. He was never any good at dealing with admitting to things he’d done (especially something like this). He closed his eyes, feeling Sherlock’s sharp gaze on him, and waited a few moments in silence to collect himself together to tell Sherlock.

“Right,” he said finally, not opening his eyes or turning to look at Sherlock. It was easier for him to admit it, this way. “When I was younger, I did something very, very stupid. My family was poor, we had a hard time just filling our bellies and paying for both the rent and the college fees. It was a hard, dark time for all of us. There … there was this group, well, more like a gang. They were ruthless, and they worked together like a well-oiled machine. Everybody feared them. Their leader, a man called Moriarty, he recruited people to work for him, and he paid and fed them well. I … I joined them, one day, when I had had enough of starving and having to work hard for everything. I didn’t realise just how … rough they were. But, once you join, you can’t get out.” John paused to take a breath, and Sherlock butted in.

“But you did,” he pointed out, sounding like he wanted John to turn and look at him.

John gave a small smile, turning and finally opening his eyes. He was amazed at the depth of emotion in Sherlock’s grey eyes. He took a deep breath and continued. “Yes, I did. Eventually. It took me years to get out of it. I … did many things I’m not proud of, but it was a necessity to survive. And, now they’re after me. I was … One of the best they had, after being in a war and all. Moran – he was there second top guy – is the one I believe is hunting me down. I figured that a forest would be the safest place to hide. I guess I was wrong. I think he’s going to find me soon. And I want to be prepared. I’m not going to let him make me leave you, Sherlock!” John said, the last sentence fierce.

Sherlock blinked, and a small smile curled on his lips. “I won’t let him either,” Sherlock told John, leaning forward and resting their foreheads together.

“Thank you,” John sighed softly, closing his eyes.

After some time, he was half-aware of Sherlock shifting them, lying down so that they were curled up together underneath the blankets, and they fell asleep like that in blissful peace.


	9. Chapter Eight

When John woke, he was slightly confused. He was cold. He shouldn’t _be_ cold. Sherlock kept him warm. Sherlock… Where was he? Opening his eyes blearily, John couldn’t see Sherlock. Frowning, most of his sleepiness vanishing, John sat up, covers pooling into his lap as he looked around the room. Still no Sherlock. Sighing, John scrubbed at his face. He supposed he couldn’t _always_ expect to wake up to Sherlock being wrapped around him. He stayed in bed for a few moments longer, relaxing into the smell and warmth surrounding him. Then, he forced himself up and out, unable to resist giving a longing glance back at the bed as he stood and walked towards the bathroom. Once inside, he made sure to lock the door after him (he didn’t know exactly to what extent Mycroft would go to ensure his younger brother was safe, and he certainly _didn’t_ want him walking in on John in the shower).

Quickly stripping, he turned on the taps and waited for the water to heat up. Once the temperature of the spray told him it was warm enough, he hopped in, smiling to himself at the relaxing warmth of the water over his muscles. This house was amazing! He didn’t know how they managed to get hot water so quickly, but he really did love it. Humming as he washed himself, he eyed the hair products before carefully picking one off the rack and opening it, taking a sniff. Smelt alright. Shrugging, he poured some into his hands and washed his hair thoroughly before rinsing it out. Repeating this with the conditioner, John was sure his hair would be soft, clean and fluffy by the time he dried it.

Turning off the tap and reluctantly stepping out, John grabbed a towel, running his hand over the smooth, soft, fluffy fabric for a moment, smiling at how he had quickly grown used to the splendour of the mansion, before drying himself off.

Staring blankly at the door to the bathroom as he realised he had forgotten to bring clothes into the bathroom with him (for the first time), he bit his lip as he wondered who might be waiting for him on the other side. Squaring his shoulders, John wrapped the towel tightly around his waist, and took a deep breath before putting his hand on the door knob and turning it, opening the door.

Thankfully (and also slightly suspiciously) there was no one waiting for him, though the door was open. He was pretty sure that had been closed when he had woken… Deciding that someone had come in at some stage, and then left again, John went and shut it before going over to the draws and rummaging around for something that suited his mood.

                        A few minutes later, he was fully dressed, wearing a tan, long-sleeved shirt and a cream coloured woollen jumper (which he had found was his favourite) with dark brown trousers. He just felt like _brown_ today. Humming slightly, he glanced at his watch. Just a few more minutes until breakfast. Perfect. 

* * *

 

John was disappointed to find that Sherlock wasn’t at breakfast. When he’d tried to ask Mrs Hudson, she had just quickly changed the subject with a quick, brief, tight-lipped smile. By the end of breakfast, John was thoroughly worried. Where on earth was Sherlock? Surely he hadn’t gone out of the mansion…?

Just to be sure, though, John checked every single room inside the mansion, his worry increasing as he didn’t find Sherlock anywhere. Finally, he turned his attention to the outside. It was another beautiful, sunny day and John allowed himself to briefly enjoy the feel of sunshine on his face, before continuing his hunt for _his_ Sherlock.

About an hour later, John had been about to give up and wait for Sherlock to come to _him_ , and had turned to head back inside, and would have missed the black ball lying in the shade of a tree, if it hadn’t whimpered softly. Spinning, John’s eyes quickly located the form of Sherlock’s and a sense of relief washed over him, before a slight sense of annoyance. Sherlock could have _told_ him that he’d be in the garden! He had worried so much.

Quickly making his way over to Sherlock, he realised his panther was still sleeping and he gently rested a hand on Sherlock’s furry shoulder, before quickly retracting his hand staring at it in shock. Sherlock’s fur had practically burnt him it was so hot. Jeez, Sherlock had a _fever_. Worry replacing his slight annoyance thoroughly, John dropped to his knees beside Sherlock. He had seemed perfectly fine the day before, but, as a doctor he knew that fevers could spring up over night with no prior indications.

Now he knew what to expect, he braced himself for the warmth before replacing his hand back on Sherlock’s furry, black shoulder, and gently shook him. That earned him a soft, but weak, growl. John sighed, and shook Sherlock slightly harder. “Come on, love, you have to wake up. We need to get you inside,” he told Sherlock softly, hardly noticing the endearment slip out, it just felt so right.

That got him a half-opened eye and a soft whine of protest. Sherlock quite obviously didn’t want to leave his spot.

“It’ll be comfier inside,” John tempted.

Sherlock just snorted and closed his eyes again.

“I get Mrs Hudson to make you that tea you like,” he tried.

No response.

“I’m not leaving until you come with me,” John said, trying to said stern, but probably failing, his worry for Sherlock making him unable to be anything _but_ concerned.

“Fine,” John finally snapped at Sherlock, having had enough of Sherlock ignoring him. He was just trying to help! “If you want to stay out here, then fine. I’m going back inside.” At this, he stood, his hand leaving Sherlock’s shoulder, and turned, beginning to walk away.

A moment later, just as planned, there was a faint mewl of protest, but John kept on walking. A moment after that, and John heard Sherlock heave a sigh, before John heard him get up on his paws and begin to, heavily, follow after John. John slowed his pace, feeling smugly satisfied, to let Sherlock catch up with him. Head hanging low with obvious exhaustion, Sherlock’s paws thudded heavily on the ground as he walked beside John.

“I can take better care of you inside,” John promised softly, reaching a hand up to scratch behind Sherlock’s ear, as he knew well that Sherlock liked. “And I won’t leave you, OK?”

“Alright,” Sherlock’s weary voice mumbled, but he leant into John’s hand as they walked back inside.

 

* * *

 

Settling Sherlock safely under the many blankets of John’s bed (Sherlock had insisted they go to John’s bedroom instead of Sherlock’s), John fussed for a few moments, making absolutely sure Sherlock was completely covered and warm by the blankets. Then, he sat down on the edge of the bed, gently stroking Sherlock’s large, hot, furry forehead, a soft smile on his face. Mrs Hudson had dropped off Sherlock’s favourite tea, just as John had promised Sherlock, and now John was prepared to wait out Sherlock’s fever. There was no medicine that Sherlock would take, so John was slightly at a loss as to what he could to do help except be here and keep Sherlock as comfortable as possible. When Sherlock’s fever had gone down a bit, then John would try to feed Sherlock some medicine to get rid of the rest of it. Sherlock gave a soft, rumbly purr, eyes still closed and breathing deep.

It was satisfying to know that, even asleep, Sherlock could still recognise and appreciate his touch. With a shot of smugness, he _knew_ that Sherlock’s older brother couldn’t say the same. After all, Mycroft hadn’t even known that Sherlock _could_ purr. Chuckling to himself in satisfaction, John continued to gently stroke his fingers through Sherlock’s soft, slightly curly, black fur.

 

* * *

 

He sat all day with Sherlock, only leaving his side once, at midday, to go and use the toilet. When he came back, Mrs Hudson (or, he _assumed_ it was Mrs Hudson, he didn’t really know for sure) had left food on the bedside table, and Sherlock was awake, looking slightly lost and disorientated, his gaze slightly glassy and unfocussed. John had rushed over and soothed him, running his fingers down Sherlock’s neck until he fell into sleep once more and curling closer to John.

That had been hours ago. He’d barely touched the food, too consumed by worry for Sherlock to eat. He’d politely, and quietly, told Mrs Hudson that they wouldn’t be eating dinner and had firmly shut down all her protests. When night had fallen, John had curled up underneath the blankets with Sherlock (now he didn’t have that thick fur to keep him warm, John figured Sherlock could use any extra heat that he could get). Sherlock had practically curled _into_ him, he was that close to John, and John found he didn’t mind. They were both comfortable, and that was all that mattered.

He dutifully stayed awake all night (even though he knew he was going to be exhausted in the morning, but he figured he could sleep as much as he wanted when Sherlock was better), regularly checking Sherlock’s temperature during the night every hour.

Near 3am, John was relieved to find it finally breaking, and his forehead was significantly cooler by the next hour. John really had meant to stay away until he could be positive Sherlock was better, but the next time he woke, it was to a blinding flash, and then panther-Sherlock staring down at him with soft eyes. Mumbling sleepy nonsense, John smiled back and reached up, vaguely realising he had been turned at some point so that he was facing Sherlock, and placed a hand on Sherlock’s furry cheek, glad that it was almost back to its normal temperature.

Sighing happily, Sherlock nuzzled into John’s caress, and then they had both closed their eyes and fallen back into sleep.


	10. Chapter Nine

“Mycroft, I need a favour.” Not words he necessarily wanted to say, but it needed to be done. John squared his shoulders and waited as Mycroft’s eyebrow rose and he swept his piercing gaze up and down John’s shorter form.

“Go on,” Mycroft said, looking very interested.

John took a deep breath, and then looked around, making sure that no-one was spying on them (he had left Sherlock still sleeping in his bed when he’d heard the now-familiar tread of Mycroft’s shoes in the hall. Satisfied there was no-one, he continued, “I’m sure that, by now, you know my history?” He waited until Mycroft gave an affirmative nod before going on. “Yes, well, I need you to track down a man called Sebastian Moran. He won’t be far from here. On the other side of the forest, at least, or perhaps he’s already inside it. He’s been tracking me for years, and I doubt he’s given up. I need to know where he is.”

Mycroft was silent for a few moments, staring down at his umbrella and twirling it thoughtfully. “And what do _I_ get out of this?” he asked finally, meeting John’s intense gaze.

John gave a slight smile. “I can promise that I will take care of your brother for as long as I am wanted here. I will make sure no harm ever comes to him – emotional or physical,” John promised, keeping Mycroft’s gaze.

Mycroft searched John’s gaze for a few moments, before he gave a small smile. “Alright. May I ask what you intend to do once I inform you of Moran’s location?” he asked mildly.

John smirked. “Just leave that part to me,” he said. He stuck his hand out. “Do we have a deal?”

Mycroft took John’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Deal.”

A low, soft yowl came from the direction of John’s room. “John?” Sherlock’s voice called, sounding slightly panicking.

John released Mycroft’s hand, and gave him a smile. “So nice doing business with you, Mycroft,” he said, a light teasing note in his voice before he turned and dashed off up the stairs. Sherlock was still recovering from his fever (even though it had broken, he still hadn’t seemed fit enough to leave John’s bed just yet), so John had hardly left his side, deeply grateful to Mrs Hudson who brought up tea and water and food for them.

Entering his room, he saw his panther lying splayed under the sheets, which were thoroughly tangled around his large furry body. John could repress his amusement. Smiling, John made his way over and sat beside Sherlock on the bed. “Here, let’s get you untangled, love,” John said, his amusement very clear in his voice.

Sherlock held still as John went about tugging the blankets away from Sherlock’s body. By the time John had untangled all of the blankets, he was laughing softly.

“How on _Earth_ did you manage to get so thoroughly tangled like that?” he asked, chuckling.

Sherlock sniffed, and sat up, shaking his body to dislodge the blankets from his body altogether. “I hardly think that’s a question worthy of an answer,” he shot back haughtily, as he stood on all four paws, fur spiking in what John could tell was embarrassment.

He quickly scooted in front of Sherlock to stop him from jumping off the bed (he was definitely _not_ ready for that yet), and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pressing his face into Sherlock’s soft neck fur. Sherlock stiffened, and John could tell that he was torn between brushing John off and jumping off the bed anyway to prove a point, or to relax into John’s embrace and lie back down. Thankfully, he chose the latter, and gave John’s cheek a lick with his rough tongue. John gave a soft laugh at the feeling, and pulled back slightly to rub at his cheek.

                        Sherlock’s lips curled into a content smile as he grabbed John gently between his paws and dragged him backwards into the middle of the bed, and then curled around him, purring happily. John scratched behind Sherlock’s soft ear, smiling. Everything was falling into place. Sherlock was getting better, Mycroft was going to find Moran for him, he and Sherlock were getting so much closer the more time they spent together. Soon, Moran would be taken care of and he and Sherlock could live together in peace with no worries.

 

* * *

 

A soft knock on John’s door caused him to start awake from his light doze. Sherlock was wrapped firmly around him, purring as he slept, and John looked around, slightly confused. At another soft knock, John looked down at Sherlock, and then out the window. The sun was about to go down. “I’ll be out in a moment,” he called softly, not wanting to wake Sherlock. He needed all the sleep he could get to finally get rid of the last of his sickness. He removed his arm from where it was resting on Sherlock’s neck, his fingers gently brushing Sherlock’s ear. Then, he carefully began to stand. Sherlock grumbled, one eye opening, slightly glazed as it locked on John. Sherlock gave a soft, questioning whine. John smiled down at him as he carefully extracted himself from Sherlock’s grasp, and stood in front of him on the floor in front of the bed. He reached out and gently stroked Sherlock’s large forehead. “I’ll be right back, love,” he promised gently.

Sherlock pushed his head up into John’s hand before closing his eye again and giving a soft purr. John waited a moment longer, still stroking his fingers through the soft, curly dark fur, before he removed his hand and walked over to the door, opening it a crack and seeing Mycroft standing there, waiting patiently. Opening the door further, he slipped out and shut it softly after him.

“Well?” he asked expectantly.

“I’ve found your man,” Mycroft informed him softly.

John grinned, excitement rising in him. He could finally be free of his past. “Brilliant. Where is he?”

Mycroft grimaced slightly. “He’s trying to find his way into the mansion now. My men underestimated him, and he followed them back to me, and then me here. He managed to get in past the gate, but not into here yet,” Mycroft told him, looking slightly annoyed.

“Perfect,” John said. “You got a gun?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Of course.”

“Good. Stay in there with Sherlock until I come back. Don’t let him leave or try and follow me, alright?” he ordered, jerking his head back to his room as he pulled his own gun out from his pocket.

Mycroft gave a nod. “Good luck,” he said softly, before walking past John and slipping into the room. He heard the soft click of the lock, and felt reassured. Mycroft wouldn’t let any harm come to his younger brother.

Clicking off the safety switch, John made his way to the front of the mansion, well familiar with the route by now. Mycroft’s men had been fast. It had only been two days since he’d made the deal with Mycroft. He was glad, though. He could finally get rid of this pest and live his life in peace.

Shutting the large doors behind him, he looked around, and caught sight of a fire, just outside the gates and a dark figure sitting behind it. Of course. Now that Moran knew he could get in whenever he wanted, he wouldn’t rush. Making his way to the gate, he kept all his senses alert for a trap and for the wolves. He’d scared them off once, and he was sure he could do again if need be.

As he made his way out of the gate and shut it firmly behind him, the figure behind the fire stood. John made his way over, eyes trained on Moran.

“I was beginning to think that you’d never turn up,” Moran’s deep, smoking-roughened voice called out to him as he made his way closer until they were standing two meters apart on opposite sides of the fire.

Moran’s hair was still the sandy blonde it had been in John’s youth, and his dark blue eyes were dull and blank of emotions as he scanned over John’s form.

“You always knew I would come,” John answered finally, not loosening his grip on his gun.

Moran just smirked coldly in answer.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” John said a low voice. He had people to protect now. They were more important to him than his own life and he would willingly give his life for them to be safe.

Moran raised an eye brow. “You know he wants you back,” Moran said, sounding slightly disgruntled about it.

It was John’s turn to smirk. “You jealous, Moran? It doesn’t suit you,” he taunted. He was confident that it still bugged Moran that John was so highly wanted by Moriarty. He was one of the best.

Moran snorted, eyes darkening further as he pulled out his hand gun. “I suggest you come with me, Watson. Unless you want to die here, in this God-forsaken forest,” he told John.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s slightly desperate yell broke John’s concentration for a moment. A few seconds later, John heard the sound of the large doors at the front of the mansion slamming open.

“John!” Sherlock yelled, his voice most definitely panicked.

 _Shit._ He would have to finish this quickly. “We both know I’m not leaving,” he told Moran, eyes hard. He would _not_ let Moran hurt Sherlock.

Moran’s eyes brightened as John heard the sound of Sherlock opening the gate and then running towards them. John’s gaze flickered upwards for a moment and he scowled as he realised Sherlock would still be a panther. More body mass for a bullet to hit.

“Very well,” Moran said, smirking coldly, “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

With that, Moran lifted his gun and pointed it over John’s shoulder. A rush of coldness ran through John’s body. Moran was aiming for Sherlock.

Spinning around, John saw that Sherlock’s panicked gaze was focussed completely on him, and wasn’t paying any attention at all to Moran. Idiot! He heard the gun fire, could practically _feel_ the satisfaction oozing off of Moran, and dived for Sherlock, knocking him out of the way. The bullet tore through his left shoulder, leaving a fiery path of pain through his shoulder, but he pushed it aside.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice sounded stricken, and he struggled under John.

“Stay still!” John snarled angrily, too concerned about keeping Sherlock safe to care about his tone. If it got Sherlock to stay still, that was all that mattered right now.

As Sherlock’s body immediately stilled under him, John used Sherlock’s body as a perch and aimed his gun at a still-smug looking Moran, who wasn’t expecting it as he quickly fired three shots in succession. One hit his shoulder, another his stomach, and the last one his leg. All shots were perfectly aimed and hit exactly where John wanted them to. Moran wouldn’t be going anywhere.

The last rays of sunlight vanished behind the horizon, and John kept his gaze focussed on Moran as Sherlock was engulfed with a blinding white light, his body changing underneath John’s. He looked back as he heard more footprints, and saw Mycroft and Mrs Hudson rushing towards them.

John was well aware that he was bleeding, but he knew that the bullet had passed cleanly through his shoulder. He stood up off of Sherlock, and glared at Mycroft. “I told you to keep him inside!” he snapped.

Mycroft opened his mouth to object, but John cut him off. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear it. Just get him inside and _keep him_ in there this time,” he snarled. He glanced down at Sherlock and saw his staring up at John, shock and slight hurt on his face. He swept his gaze over Sherlock’s human body and was glad to find he wasn’t harmed. He then turned his attention to Mrs Hudson, his voice softening slightly. “Can you get the first aid kit ready? My shoulder is going to need to be stitched up,” he told her. She immediately nodded, and John spun around as he caught the sound of Moran shifting on the floor, and shot his gun at Moran’s hand as it reached for the hand gun.

He heard Mycroft walking forward and helping Sherlock off the ground, and Mrs Hudson fussing over him, but didn’t turn. Sherlock would be safe with them.

He stalked towards Moran and kicked the gun away from him. “I told you that you shouldn’t have come,” he growled at Moran, eyes flashing coldly.

Moran just gave a groan, staring up at John with hate clear in his eyes. Aiming his gun, John shot Moran’s forehead, killing him quickly. The wolves would deal with the rest of him. Turning, John pocketed his gun and stamped out the fire, blowing out a deep breath. Maybe he’d been a bit too harsh on Sherlock.

Turning, he didn’t regret what he had done. It had saved Sherlock, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft. Nothing could ever make his regret that. He headed back into the mansion, clutching at his shoulder. He really needed to get that stitched up before he lost too much blood.


	11. Epilogue

Sherlock was pacing in John’s bedroom, hands behind his back and frowning, when John finally made it there. His head snapped up as John entered, and Mrs Hudson gave him a small, relieved smile from where she was sitting on John’s bed. “John,” Sherlock’s voice was relieved.

John gave him a smile, and sat down on the floor, too exhausted to go any further. “I’m sorry I’m snapped at you,” he apologised.

Sherlock waved a hand as he grabbed the first aid kit from where it was sitting beside Mrs Hudson. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have gone after you anyway. It was a stupid move on my part,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“I’ll leave you two dears alone then,” Mrs Hudson said softly, standing. “Come see me when you’re feeling better, John.”

John smiled at her. “I will,” he promised, before returning his gaze to Sherlock.

Sherlock knelt beside him, and opened the kit, and John immediately recognised it as his. He lifted his arms up, and Sherlock gently pulled his jumper and shirt up over his head, murmuring an apology as John winced.

The cool air attacked his skin, and John shivered. “Perhaps this would be easier if I knock you out again?” Sherlock asked softly, slight amusement in his tone as he gave a slight smile, clearly remembering the last time John had been wounded and Sherlock had stitched him up.

John gave a slight smile. “Alright,” he agreed. “I trust you, Sherlock.”

                        Sherlock gave him a soft smile, and shifted close, pressing a soft, tender kiss to John’s temple, before he placed his hands on the back of John’s neck and pressed his pressure points firmly, causing John’s vision to fade to black.

 

When John drifted back into consciousness, he was aware that his shoulder had been stitched up, and then bandaged, and he was lying on his bed. He could tell because it was a lot softer and comfier than the woollen floor. Opening his eyes, all he could see was black. At first, he just thought it was because it was probably deep into the night by now, and because the lights were off. Then, he saw that the blackness was… curly? Frowning slightly, he heard a muffled snore and realised that it was just Sherlock’s hair. That was when he realised that there was a warm arm draped over his stomach possessively, and a leg in between his. Smiling, John turned his head and saw the back of Sherlock’s head. Grumbling softly in his sleep, Sherlock turned his head to face John’s, and their noses softly brushed.

Smiling, John lifted his uninjured arm and gently brushed a few stray curls out of Sherlock’s face. Sighing happily, Sherlock nuzzled into his hand. “I love you, John,” Sherlock murmured soft in a sleepy tone.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” John whispered back. A smile curled Sherlock’s lips upwards as he fell back into sleep.

John stayed awake, having had enough rest for now, and just stared at Sherlock, enjoying watching his peaceful face as the brilliant man slept.

Eventually, Sherlock awoke as the sun rose high in the sky. Breakfast would be in half an hour, John noticed idly, before turning his gaze to Sherlock and realising that he hadn’t transformed. Grinning, John leant forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock hummed happily, before his eyes shot open, and he pulled back, staring at John in shock.

He lifted his hand which wasn’t curled around John’s waist, and felt his own face, a grin spreading across his lips as John watched with amusement.

“I … I’m _human_ ,” he said in awe, looking down at John before he cupped John’s face with one hand and pressed a firm kiss to his lips.

John chuckled, breaking the kiss and cupping Sherlock’s face, smoothing his thumbs over the high cheekbones. “Yes. And you’re _my_ human,” he said softly.

“I love you so much, John,” Sherlock whispered happily, his grey-blue eyes sparkling.

“I love you, too, Sherlock,” John replied softly, grinning.

“That was my curse. A witch cursed me to live that half-life of a panther by day and a man at night until someone came who loved _both_ sides of me, for me. And not just for how I looked,” Sherlock explained, practically bursting with happiness.

“That would be me,” John chuckled. “And I’m never going to leave you, Sherlock. Nothing can ever tear us apart.”

“Forever,” Sherlock agreed in a whisper, before leaning forward and gently kissing John.

Nothing would ever be strong enough to tear them apart. No matter what happened next, they were in this together, to the end.


End file.
